


One more Round, For the Road

by miss_nettles_wife



Series: Whump Challenges [3]
Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: Emotional Whump, Gen, Russian Roulette, charlie does put a gun to his head but he is NOT suicidal, father/son relationship, linked to a different fic still in progress >.>, non consensual Russian Roulette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:40:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27136060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_nettles_wife/pseuds/miss_nettles_wife
Summary: After being forced to play Russian Roulette against his will, Charlie tries to play by himself. To prove he can.  (Written for the prompt  'What the Hell?'  (week 9)  Whump Unlimited Challenge)
Relationships: Charlie Davis & Lucien Blake
Series: Whump Challenges [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1873720
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	One more Round, For the Road

**Author's Note:**

> I originally started thinking about this weeks ago but I couldn't properly present my idea with the idea. after letting it marinate for a while i wrote this. written in one sitting, in a sugar induced madness.

It’s not the same gun. Charlie doesn’t know why he’d thought he’d be so lucky that it would be the same kind of gun, because it’s clearly not. The gun that they used had been a bitty thing. The boss would have called it a ladies gun, with its stubby nose and little handle. Perfect for little hands, like those of the lady who was sitting next to him. The one who took the shot at him. 

Frustration seeps into his pores as he looks down at his bounty, stolen from Jean’s unmentionables drawer. It was a revolver, which he supposed was the most important thing, but it had a long barrel. And a keyring, a rabbits foot on the end. For good luck, he supposed. Not that it did Christopher Beazley any good. If he’s going to go through with this, then he’s going to need all the luck he can get so he doesn’t pull it off. Pretty much everyone in this house has a service weapon. He included. But his wouldn’t be any good for this, it’s an automatic. No barrel to speak of, the next shot would absolutely kill him. Same with Matthew’s weapon too. It’s nearly identical to his aside from the slightly more worn grip and the identification number scratched into the bottom. Blake’s weapon was in his office, too hard for Charlie to get his hands on without potentially having the other denizens of the Blake House increase their surveillance on him. 

He wasn’t coping nearly as well as he thought he was. As everyone seemed to think he was. And they didn’t think he was coping at all seeing as Matthew has still refused to let him back on the job ‘at least until your hands stop shaking’. It’s ridiculous. He would be fine at work, he knows that. He’d never let anything interfere with his job. All the more reason to get this done today. Prove to himself once and for all that it’s over. It’s all over, that he’s not marked for death. That he can pull the trigger himself. 

When Sean-Mikeal had him in that room with the six other unfortunates, he hadn’t been allowed to pull the trigger himself. He’d had the woman next to him, a drug addict Charlie is pretty sure, pull the trigger for him. Sean-Mikeal in his ridiculous accent had said it was because he knew Charlie would shoot him if he had the gun. And he wasn’t wrong. If Charlie had been able to get his hands around the blasted thing - woman's gun or not - he would have killed him if he had to go through five shots to get there. He wishes that he could feel what the Boss felt when he shot the bastard because Charlie would bet his life that it felt good. 

Maybe it’s a problem the amount of time he’s spent fantasizing about that moment, the look of cold red dipped steel in the Boss’s eyes when he delivered the final shot. The pump - thud of his heart inside his chest that went still the second that the bastard fell, white blue eyes frozen in surprised as he fell down. The blood pooling around his shoes and sticking to his face as he waited, patiently, to be untied. The stillness had unnerved the Boss, and Blake, and the woman he was seated next to. He was shipped off to the hospital despite being unwounded by the situation. 

Unwounded physically. Charlie’s not to deluded that he’s not unwounded mentally. He flinches at the sound of curtains, he never used to do that. There were curtains in the room they’d been stuck in, big ones that blocked out the other side of the room. Every time he went to spin the barrel of the weapon Sean-Mikeal would pull them aside, then thrust them back. Jean goes to great pains not to open curtains when he’s around. Lucien says this will pass but he’s not so sure. He hopes it does, the idea of being a burden forever doesn’t sit well with him. 

He flicked his wrist to the side, revealing the six chambers of the pistol. In each little hole sits a bullet. Mrs Blake keeps her weapon fully loaded, then. He won’t be needing six, so he tips them into his other palm, they’re cool to the touch, yellow brass coloured. He only needs one. One in six chance of killing himself. Less than fifty per cent. Of course, it would be better if the odds were zero, not like he has a choice but. With a shuddering breath, he counted out five. He set them on his dresser, the flat bottoms down, their little noses pointed up at the sky. As he sets each one down, his hands shake progressively more and more. 

That isn’t good, he thinks. He’ll have trouble keeping the gun still at this rate. It doesn’t count if he misses and he doesn’t intend to tempt lady luck more than once. He clasps the final bullet between his thumb and pointer finger. When not in the gun, it hardly seems menacing. Difficult to believe such a little thing could do so much damage. He’s seen heads split apart by these little things, not just clean shots in between the eyes. He was never one for prayers but he thanks God that no one died during Sean-Mikeals little game. All five participants survived. Him, the drug addict, the gambler, the teenage boy in the wrong place at the wrong time and the police informant. All of them lived, despite each playing around. Each of them fitting their fingers around the wood panel grip. Each raising the weapon to their temple too scared to take the chance and take a shot at their tormentor. Each working up the courage to squeeze down, trusting that there was only one bullet in the gun. 

Well, except the gambler. He had to be scared into pulling the trigger by Sean-Mikeal throwing his beer can at the wall. His full beer can that promptly fizzled out the top in a dirty cream coloured explosion of unfortunate colour and smell. The smell of beer stuck an uneasy feeling inside him two nights ago when he went with the Boss to a lock-in. To see the boys from work he’s missed, to get to know Peter Crowe, to finally have that drink with Hobart. As soon as he got a smell of beer in his nose he escaped to the bathroom to be sick and said he was going home. The look of concern on Bill’s face was almost too much to handle. Bill isn’t meant to be concerned about him, no one is meant to be concerned about him. It’s not right. 

With un-practised hands, he slid the bullet into the chamber most exposed. It fell into place like a fox sliding into a hole. The thought reminded him of the saying, about atheists and foxholes. Charlie is not invested in Cathlosisim, never bothered to be but he still had it in him to pray each time a new person was handed the freshly spun weapon. He understood why people would take to religion. The idea that there was something else, someone else, assuring your safety as you tempted fate. Or, were forced too. He doesn’t think that any of the people he was trapped with were particularly Godly sorts, but he was sure they were all praying as well. 

Using the flat of his hand, he gave the cylinder a push. It spun too fast for him to count the rotations so with closed eyes he slammed it into place. It clicked into a stop. He allowed his eyes to open and settled in on the weapon, now ready for use. He lifted it to the side of his face, swallowing tightly, unsure what the Hell is the matter with him. Why can’t he pull the trigger? So simple, one little finger movement. 

He opens his eyes and found his own face starring back at him. His sunken eyes with heavy brown purple bags under them. His white peach skin, pale from spending too much time indoors. The faint scar on his forehead where Norman Baker hit him with the neck brace, gone pink cream with time. His nose has healed on an angle, it used to be perfectly straight all the way down the middle of his face, not it’s ever so slightly to the left. It’s such a silly thing to focus on, he should be glad to be alive, not thinking about if his nose was straight or not. But it’s not anymore. Sean-Mikeal and that lackey of his broke it, so it’s fucked up now. Lucien did his best with it but he’s not a miracle worker. 

The last few months have been Hell. Sean-Mikeal is dead. This should be over. Why isn’t this over? He can almost taste phantom blood in his mouth, see the tear streaks on his dusty face, cutting through the grime. This should have ended. It will end. Once he proves that he can, that he’s capable all this will end. He looks at the gun in his hand, tries to will his finger to pull the trigger. He can’t...And he knows why. 

The final round they played, with five terrified faces looking at him, the drug attic put the gun to her head, shut her eyes, said a prayer and pulled the trigger. Click. She does so. Do it again, Sean-Mikeal says. Too terrified to say no, she complied. Her shaking is so violent that her chair is vibrating, the metal legs pinging off the floor. Charlie does his best to keep his gaze firm while he waits for Sean-Mikeal to take the gun and spin it. He doesn’t, instead, he meets Charlie’s gaze with his own. 

“Shoot Davis.” He says, voice as calm as could be. The drug addict raised the gun, her wrist is shaking worse than Charlie has ever seen someone shake. Her face is wet with tears, her nose runs over her top lip. She’s shaking her head back and forth and he wants to tell her to turn and shoot the bastard but he knows she won’t. She’s not that kind of person he can tell. “I told you to shoot him.” Sean-Mikeal insists, his voice is like rubbing sandpaper on your corneas. 

“Just do it, Judy.” He says, voice soft. Her hair had been done up in old fashioned victory rolls. One of them has fallen out. “It’s okay. I have a fifty-fifty chance.” This just makes her cry harder, the gun remains pointed firmly at Charlie but she can’t pull the trigger. She looks to be in her early thirties, her front bottom tooth is fake, and two shades lighter than the rest of her teeth. 

“Ju-Deeee” Sean-Mikeal teases, “Pull the trigger.” 

“I’ll be okay.” He repeats, hoping God won’t make a fool out of him. With a grunt fit for someone lifting a car one-handed, the drug addict managed. Click. Nothing. No bullet. Charlie let out a choking agonised laugh. He lived. He’d lived. Judy throws the gun aside with a sob. 

Hardly thinking about it, Charlie raised the gun and pointed it at the mirror. Pulled the trigger once, aimed at his reflection. Click. Then again in quick succession. Click. His face stares back at him around the barrel of the gun. Two wet blue slate eyes stare back at him. Now he’s got the conditions right. He raises the gun to the side of the head, but it slides out of his sweat-slick palms and bounces off the ground. Thank god it doesn’t go off. He waits a second to see if anyone has heard. No footsteps follow in the following thirty seconds, not that he was expecting any. Jean was at work, Matthew was in Melbourne and Blake was busy in his office trying to figure out what patients would return to him. 

He was practically alone. The thought does nothing to settle him. 

He raises the gun again, this time making sure the muzzle rests up against the side of his face. One in four chances. One quarter. It’s still not enough. The fear isn’t enough to force his stoically Catholic fingers into action. He’s trying to force this trigger finger down but it won’t go. And why would it? There’s no reason to be doing this other than to make a point to himself. His life is not in danger. He’s okay, except that he isn’t. Hasn’t been in a while and he doesn’t know how to make himself okay again. 

Everyone probably thinks there’s something wrong with him. Probably want to have him sequestered in a ward, let them shock him, or do whatever it is they do in there. He should be okay by now, it’s been three weeks. More than enough time to get his shit together. More than enough time to get his brain up. To be fine again. To stop fearing sleep, to stop feeling as if his alarm clock counting down the seconds until he could get up again was a landmine waiting to blow up, to be able to stand the smell of beer and the sound of curtains. To be normal. To be fine. 

He just has to be fine again. He just has to pull the trigger and be fine ag- FUCK

“What the Hell are you doing?” A voice demands, startling Charlie not into pulling the trigger like he might have hoped, but into jolting and his shaking hand falling away from his face. They surge forward, grabbing hold of his hand and wrestling Jean’s revolver from his shaking fingers. Charlie stops fighting after token resistance, allowing the gun to be taken and set on the dresser. The fight is anticlimactic. Barely a fight at all, he’s too startled by the noise. “Charlie? CHARLIE?” 

“Huh?” He answers as Lucien clicks the safety on the gun and tips the single bullet out into his hand. He stares at it, confusion morphing into horror on his face. His blue emerald eyes are wide, he has a freckle inside the blue part of his eye, it’s painfully visible in the look he’s receiving. Charlie doesn’t know what he was looking for, in Lucien’s eyes but it’s not there. Just...Horror. Sheer horror. He throws the gun carelessly aside and just about strangles Charlie in his arms and he pulls him close. He has a couple of inches of Charlie, such an advantage allows him to force Charlie’s face into the join of his neck and shoulder. 

“You weren’t trying to kill yourself,” Lucien mutters, mostly lost in his hair. “Thank God, you weren’t trying to kill yourself.” He doesn’t reply, there isn’t anything that he can say that will make this situation any better. If Lucien wasn’t going to commit him before then he certainly was now. It’s over. Everything is over and he’s never going to be fine again not with the gun over there and him over here. He realizes, belatedly, that Lucien is crying. He doesn’t like the sound of it, he doesn’t think anyone wants to see their friends their...Father figures cry. They must stand like that for a while, Charlie frozen and Lucien whispering inarticulately into his hair. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say or where to lead. Eventually, Lucien pulls away long enough that he can make eye contact with him. 

“Why?” He asks, sounding terrible….Broken down. Winded. “After everything, he put you through, why would you want to play that fucking game?” It startles him to hear Lucien swear. He’s not sure he’s ever heard that before, not sure he wants to hear it again either. Lucien doesn’t even stop to let him answer before pushing on to the next question. “Is it the thrill? The adrenaline? Jesus, Charlie we can find...We can find other ways that don’t need you to put your life on the line.” He insists. “Just talk to me, please. I’ve given you space, and time but you have to talk to me now. Please.” 

“It just had to be me.” He says, and when he says it out loud his reasoning sounds pathetic. 

“What?”

“It has to be me, who pulls the trigger. Sean….He never let me pull the trigger myself.” 

“You’re...Trying to shoot yourself because he made that poor girl do it?” 

“Her name is Judy.” 

“Answer my question.” 

“Yes.” He fought his way out of Lucien’s grip, only to be trapped with the small of his back up against the dresser, Lucien at his front. The doctor holds his hands in typical mock surrender. “It doesn’t make sense to you.” He states the obvious. “I just need to do it.” 

“Why?” He asks again, voice hardly more than a whisper as if he expects Charlie to be able to enunciate it any clearer than he already has. 

“Because I want this to be over!” He shouted, voice cracking like a child as he did so, “Sean-Mikeal is dead, his lackey is in prison, I should be fine. I should be okay. This should be over, but it isn’t. If I can just...Do this. If I can prove to myself that I can do this, that I can pull the trigger then it’ll all be over. I can go back to work, I can go out drinking...Jean can open the damn curtains without worrying if she’s going to send me into a mental breakdown. I just want this to be over.” Lucien’s face crinkles up like wax paper when Charlie speaks. Charlie realizes he is crying now. Maybe he was crying the whole time. He isn’t sure, but his face is wet. Lucien lowers his arms and continues to stare at him, face unreadable. “I don’t want to be a burden, living here rent-free, making everyone’s life difficult...Making a fool of myself.” 

“You’re not a burden, and I never want you to think or say that again,” Lucien says, a little sternly. “Tell me, if one of your brothers was beaten, and then forced into playing...That game would you think they were a burden?” 

“No! But that-” 

“It’s not different. You’re a person, just like them. You have a family who loves you. Friends who love you. Who just want you to get better. If you pay rent or don’t it doesn’t matter. If you get upset when you hear a curtain open, or can’t stand the smell of beer or have nightmares...None of that matters. You’re my family. You belong in my house.” Charlie can’t stop the wet, weary look from spreading across his face as he looks up. Whatever Lucien sees in his eyes, he must take it as permission because he wraps Charlie in another tight hug. This time Charlie presses his face against his shoulder and wraps his arms around him as tightly as he can without hurting the man. Then he cries in earnest. 

“No one is expecting you to be fine. You just need to take some time, heal. You will, and you don’t need to...Do this. Play this game. I know you could have pulled that trigger on yourself because you have more mental fortitude than people know. You don’t have to. It’s over, Charlie. You’re home. You’re safe. You lived, and you don’t need to prove it to anyone. Not even yourself.” 

“You won’t send me away, will you? Commit me?” He asks, surprised at how soft his voice is against Lucien’s blazer lapel. 

“No.” He says, simply. “As long as it’s only this once. If you make a habit out of it then you might need more help than I can give you. I only want what’s best for you. That’s all anyone wants.” 

“I want to be normal again.” 

“You will be, with time,” Lucien says, with finality. 

“Can we stand like this a little longer?” He asks Lucien smells like...whiskey and soap. Pomade. Comfort. 

“Of course.” He answers, holding just slightly tighter, just slightly closer. 

Charlie feels like, for the first time, that it’s over. 


End file.
